A Haunting
by nyxlily
Summary: A random investigation into an abandoned house, leading to yet another episode in their life that will never be discussed.  Ever.


**Title:** A Haunting  
**Summary:** A random investigation into an abandoned house, leading to yet another episode in their life that will never be discussed - ever.  
**A/N:** Written for prompt 7 from foundficspn.. a long time ago. I thought I'd eventually expand on it, but found I like it as is, so posting it here now.

* * *

Sam eyed the dilapidated building – more house than shed, but only just – critically. It was rundown, crawling with ivy and abundant with weeds; the wilderness reclaiming lost ground. Any signs of human presence would be gone in another couple of years.

"Dean," Sam protested tiredly from the passenger seat, refusing to budge. "You said we're on a schedule." In fact, Sam recalled vividly Dean ignoring his plead for a coffee break with the excuse that they had to make Richmond by sundown.

"It'll only take a minute," Dean said as he came around from the rear of the car, the basic requisite equipment for dealing with assorted spirits and supernatural beings in a well-worn bag, slung over a shoulder.

Sam shot him a glare. The response was the same one Sam had used not an hour ago. "Dean, not every abandoned house carries an evil, sinister past. People _can_ just decide to move on."

"Yeah, but this one's giving off a vibe," Dean said without looking back, already halfway up the dirt path leading up to the house. "And it looks haunted."

Sam gave a long suffering sigh and reluctantly dragged himself out of the car. "Since when do you get _vibes_?" He was tempted to use the old "don't judge a book by its cover" argument, but he suspect he'd only come off as preachy and get yet another sarcasm laden response from his brother.

Dean either didn't hear or chose not to answer. Sam jogged up the path to catch up, but his brother was already disappearing through the open entry, the door was missing.

The building was in worse disrepair than Sam thought; the woody smell of the forest had invaded to the interior. Sam's footsteps echoed Dean's inside, muffled yet ringing in the enclosed tiny space. The furnitures that had been left behind was slowly decomposing, though still recognizable. The house had a claustrophobic feel to it; the walls, bleeding stains and glistening wetly from the humidity, seemed to loom in on Sam, the ceiling he could have touched without stretching.

"Huh," Dean said from behind a doorway leading into what Sam presumed to be the bedroom – the place was tiny, and it didn't require much imagination to guess what was behind the one and only partitioned off area.

"What is it?" Sam had a feeling that he wouldn't like the answer.

"Check it out."

Sam walked over, closing the short distance between them in a few steps, and peered around Dean. He was right in that this was used as a bedroom. A bed with a moldy mattress sat just inside, a tiny table acted as a nightstand. The skeletal remains of what appeared to be a woman laid on top of the bed.

"She could have died in her sleep, it doesn't mean it was foul play." Sam tried valiantly to sound logical.

Dean grunted an acknowledgment and moved further in to examine the corpse. Sam could see that it was badly decomposed, with tattered remains of her - _night gown?_ Sam guessed, clinging to to her rotted flesh. Her long hair was fanned out beneath her.

Dean raised his eyes from the body to meet Sam's, a tired twitch of his lips told Sam what he already knew. The corpse was too far gone to make out any details that could be of help to them.

"We should call it in, maybe she still has family looking for her."

Dean shrugged, already scanning the rest of the room for further clues. It took less than a minute; the room was small to begin with, but it was the lack of any real furnishings that told them they wouldn't find anything.

Sam hated to say it, especially with the woman's eyes staring hollowly at him, but he just did not feel that this fell within their jurisdiction. "Whatever happened here happened a long time ago, Dean. We should leave it for the police."

Dean nodded and gestured for Sam to move. "I know."

Sam turned, heading outside toward fresh air and relief from the oppressive gloom that was positively radiating from the place. He paused when he didn't hear Dean's footfalls following him. He waited, wondering what was holding his brother up. "Dean?"

There was no reply, no answering calls, and the house had fallen quiet. Not just quiet – no sound from the outside seem able to penetrate the thin walls, despite the missing door and broken windows.

"Dean?" Sam called again, this time a slight edge entered his voice, as he retraced his steps back to the bedroom. "Maybe there is something to this vibe of yours."

Dean was still standing by the bed, though he was now leaning over the body, his hands slowly tracing the hair, his lips moving in a murmur Sam couldn't catch. What worried him more was the shadow just next to Dean, close, but not touching. It grew in definition as the light was leeched from the room, so that Sam could see the shape of the face, the details of her dress. She was looking down at the body with Dean, her shoulders hunched in remorse or grief.

"I'm sorry..." Dean said softly, trailing off quietly.

The shadow, the ghost, turned her head toward Dean and asked, "Sorry for what?"

Dean, not looking up from the corpse, shook his head, hand smoothing a stray tendril of hair from the rotted face. "I don't know--" Dean paused, seemingly trying to compose himself before continuing. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."

"Dean, snap out of it, man." Sam wanted to yell, but his words came out in a hushed whisper. The quiet all encompassing, appearing to affect even his voice.

"I'm sorry," Dean repeated, hands clenched into fists. Apparently Sam was not reaching him. "Tell me you forgive me."

The ghost shook her head, not in denial, but in confusion. "You don't need to be forgiven. This wasn't your fault." She lifted a hand to his face, but when she tried to touch him, it drifted right through. Apparently the ghost was not reaching him either.

Sam had to stop this, stop whatever part Dean was playing - the reliving of old memories, repeating lines no doubt spoken years ago and held some meaning then. Sam could not wait for this to play out, not knowing its conclusion. He moved with purpose to the dropped bag by Dean's feet and hauled out the shotgun. Without hesitation, he pumped it, took aim, and fired point blank at the manifestation.

It, as expected, wavered and dispersed. Sam eyed the small room, looking for further dangers, but everything stayed quiet. "Dean?" He asked, his eyes roving over his brother, waiting for something, anything, to break the blanketing silence.

Dean didn't move, still existing within his own little reality. His fingers were tracing where the lips had been on the corpse, resuming the murmured conversation Sam could not hear. Sam grimaced, knowing what his brother's response would be had he known what he was doing.

So, whatever was going on didn't go away with the temporary disappearance of the ghost. Time to move on to Plan B – the tried and true way of getting rid of restless spirits. He grabbed Dean by both shoulders and started to shove him out the room. Dean would appreciate the manhandling later, when he was in his right mind, but now he snarled and snapped and fought Sam to return to the bedside. Sam took a punch to the kidney for his trouble.

"Dammit," Sam cursed mildly, though he couldn't complain too much, knowing this was nothing compared to the damage he could have suffered had his brother been in control of his body.

It happened so gradually, and coupled with his handful of Dean's struggling form, Sam wasn't even aware of it until it was too late. It started with the edges of his senses seemingly dulled, then his mind slowly clouding even as he fought Dean. The control over his thoughts and body finally gone altogether as an alien mind stole in.

"Eric," Sam, and not Sam, said.

Dean raised his head, eyes bright with frustration and anger, but those emotions were already receding, being replaced with hope and sadness. "Karen," he breathed, unbelieving.

"Eric, stop. It wasn't your fault."

Dean shook his head stubbornly. "You wouldn't have died if I had been faster. If I-"

Sam -Karen- cut him off with a finger to Dean's lips. "Listen to me, Eric. Listen. It wasn't your fault," Karen, using Sam's voice, said definitively, with firm conviction. "You need to move on, so I can move on."

Dean's eyes widen as realization dawned. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. God, Karen.." Dean held onto Sam, tightly. "I love you."

Sam leaned down and kissed the top of his head. "I know."

That was the last thing he said before everything blacked out.

* * *

Sunlight poured into the room, and Dean was staring at him from the wall he had propped himself against.

"Dean, are-"

"Dude, we are not going to talk about this. Ever. You ready?" Dean didn't wait for an answer – just picked up his bag and walked out the door.

Sam sighed. Great, so displays of emotions as carried out by possessions, or whatever it was that happened, was also not allowed. Whatever. Sam was not going to argue; it was too weird.

The younger Winchester cast one last look at the corpse – Karen – before following Dean out.


End file.
